


The Promise of Stars

by Argyle



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-04
Updated: 2004-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:38:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: An orchid, a painting, a rather tragic affair.





	The Promise of Stars

It seemed that each leaf within the garden held its own vibrantly green note as the first drops of June began to reach the rich expanse of the ground. Only the most mindful of observers would notice the intricate strands of a forgotten melody as it wove through the lightness of the breeze and the filtered bars of sunlight as they softly met through the window. Basil Hallward breathed in deeply, relishing the earthen grains of scent as they tickled against his tongue, damp and peaceful in flavor. Standing for a moment to the side of the blossoming lilac bushes, he watched as the flowers bowed and flowed against the weight of the rain, collecting the water within their veins as it collected and dripped from his own brow. The swaying wash of colors held a definite grace, though petals had already begun to sprawl toward the cobbles of the path, meeting the dark palate of the soil as with the dust and memories of previous seasons that were abundant there.

Clutching a silver pair of shears, Basil walked to the entrance of his arboretum, twisting the latch of the door with a swift stroke and stepping inside. He dashed a hand against the rain in his eyes, setting the sheers to a low table and moving beside the ledge and the potted groups of orchids that were held against the window. A dozen flowering spikes reached forward and to all sides as with a plea for forgiveness or simply recognition, here yellow and orange, there the deepest purple and red. Running the tips of his fingers across their waxen petals, he smiled, his hands dipping now to the damp moss and wooden chips from which the spiraling talons of their roots bound forth. As he pulled apart the dry leaves and formed paths for new growth, he listened to the knocking of the rain against the panes of glass, set before the knocking that presently began against the door. It swung open slowly and he turned, leaning slightly forward as though to catch sight of the interruption before he was seen, himself.

There was a voice, smooth and melodic as the whisper of rain. “My dear Basil. I had rather thought that I would find you in here. Parker was so kind in letting me inside – this weather is quite merciless.” Dorian Gray smiled, walking toward Basil with a graceful stride and extending his hand.

“Dorian,” Basil replied breathlessly, taking the other’s grasp. “I am pleased that you’ve come.”

“How could I not?” The boy shook his head and, running a hand against the water that dotted through the golden curls of his hair, he peered outside. “Tapering off, I suspect.”

“Hmm?” Basil arched a brow, watching as Dorian looked down to the orchids with half-lidded eyes.

“The rain.” Dorian held a large crimson bloom within his palm as it reflected brightly against the pale lengths of his fingers. “Like a star sprung from the earth,” he whispered, squeezing the curve of the petals lightly against themselves. “A star sprung from nothingness.”

The painter smiled and reached to another of the plants, its spidery brown flowers barely larger than his thumbnail. He looked with parted lips to Dorian and then back to the orchid. “This one has a particular scent. Can you guess at it?”

Dorian laughed softly and leaned forward, his face nearly touching the lush waves of the greens. His lashes fluttered and his brow furrowed as he breathed in, closing his eyes as he stood again as though caught within a memory. “Let me see,” he sighed at length. “It is like chocolate, I should imagine.”

Grinning, Basil met Dorian’s gaze and nodded slowly. The two stood still, breathing against the moisture of the air and the new sunbeams that spread through the windows.

“How long do the flowers last when they are left upon their stems?” The boy frowned.

“Oh, a month. Sometimes longer.” Basil shrugged, a smile at once flashing across his features.

“They are really quite marvelous.”

“Yes.”

“You know, Basil, I’ve a man in town who supplies me with the finest of orchids. I would be happy to direct you to him -- you could so easily be free of tending to them yourself. It seems a dour thing.”

“Nonsense, Dorian. That would most certainly defeat the purpose,” the painter chuckled, tilting his head back and again reaching toward a stream of blooms, running the tips of his fingers against the width of a leaf.

Dorian laughed shortly and with a swift movement took the shears into his palm, holding them aloft for a moment as though admiring the glint of light against their surface. He then swung them against his long fingers and placed the blades to the base of the largest, most sanguine bloom, clipping it with a silver snap. Raising it to the curve of his lips, he smiled, at once catching Basil within the starry hue of his eyes. After a still minute, he blinked, slipping the flower within the slant of his lapel.

“Delightful!” Dorian said, his voice mockingly dramatic, and turned toward the painter. “Basil, I cannot possibly sit for you today.”

“Please, Dorian,” Basil protested. “It would mean a great deal to me.”

“No, no.” Dorian shook his head and stepped back. “Ah, I know -- no Basil, you mustn’t argue. Let us go into the country. The clouds are parting yet and my hansom is outside.” With this he gestured loftily toward the window, a smile dancing across his gently parted lips.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” the painter accepted after a moment. “Allow me to gather my brushes.”

Dorian bowed his head almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”

With a short backward glance to his orchids, Basil stepped out of the arboretum with Dorian following closely behind. Drops collected against the soft leather of his soles as he walked brusquely over the lawn and into the musty air of his studio. There were sheets and sketches scattered across the floor, blown by the breeze, and he reached to retrieve them, gathering a small canvas and a set of paints into a wooden briefcase. Closing it with a soft motion, he held it to his chest and looked to Dorian, who was leaning languorously against the doorframe, his feet crossed against each other. As light cradled his thin frame and the sharp hem of his trousers, his face was caught in shadow, only revealing itself through a faint glint within the blue of his eyes.

Basil took his hat and coat from the outstretched arms of his butler and nodded with a muted smile. “Thank you, Parker. I shan’t be back until this evening. Please send word to Lord Henry that I’ll not be able to dine with him.” A frown crossed his face as he turned to Dorian and they walked outside once more, stepping onto the curb and into the hansom cab.

As they began to roll along, Dorian leaned back into the cushions of his seat and agilely crossed his legs. Reaching into his coat pocket for his silver case and gently setting a slim cigarette to his lips, he lit it and began, “Basil, I do find your paintings to be charming, though I must say...” He then paused, drawing on his cigarette.

The painter leaned his cheek into his hand, solemnly arching a brow as an indication for Dorian to continue. “Yes?” he said after a minute of silence had passed.

Dorian simply smiled and lightly shook his head as though the moment for the topic had passed. He closed his eyes, blue smoke twining through the gleaming curls of his hair. Basil swallowed, feeling his pulse quicken as his gaze crossed over Dorian’s form; the poise of his pale hands over his knees, the soft tilt of his head against the mahogany of the backing wall, the curve of his mouth, now twisting into a leer as he met Basil’s stare. Basil shook himself, looking quickly through the window, setting the tips of his fingers against the cool glass. At length the cab was overwhelmed on either side by brilliantly lit hills and trees holding their weight at jaunty angles, swaying against the wind’s touch.

As the hansom lurched to a stop, Basil at last met Dorian’s eye again. The trace of malice that had sparked from his features before was gone, replaced now by a calm admiration as he stepped onto the rocky slant of the path and looked toward the grassy expanse. Perhaps unconsciously, he made a lofty motion with his hand and began walking toward a great tree, its bows sweeping far across the landscape.

Taking his case in his arms, Basil followed, stopping in the reaches of the tree’s shade and assembling the frame of a tiny wooden easel. As he set himself onto the ground, he pulled aside his box of paints, squeezing drops of pigment onto a palate and taking a brush in his fingers. Basil watched Dorian as he lit another cigarette and leaned casually against the tree’s sprawling trunk, shifting forward slightly to see the painter’s blank canvas and the scope of the land that extended itself before them.

Basil let his eyes graze over the countryside, the gentle sloping of the meadows and the thriving patches of woods. The morning’s rain had brought a fresh scent out of the earth, at once warm and inviting, and wildflowers of lavender and pink streaked across the breath of the grass. He tried to set the scene inside his mind, sketching out the details that would become strokes and dabs of paint, though as he raised his brush to the white face of the canvas, he was unable to move his hand in the proper directions. At length he set it aside, pressing his fingers to his temples and closing his eyes, running a shaky hand through the dusky mass of his hair. Basil sighed, running the boundaries of the landscape through his thoughts. He then felt Dorian’s form settle into the turf beside him. The boy grazed an open palm over the blades of grass before him and, frowning slightly, he leaned close to Basil as though to tell him a secret of great importance. He remained silent, though, and set his hand to Basil’s thigh with a light press, his cheek softly resting against Basil’s shoulder. Dorian looked to the blank canvas, to the hillside, and finally into Basil’s eyes; with a smile, he pulled the orchid free from his lapel and placed it against the easel’s side-joint.

“The earth has promised the stars,” Dorian sighed at last, his words almost lost to the breeze.

His brow furrowing, Basil opened his mouth slightly, though he found no words. Instead, he felt the wash of Dorian’s gaze, seeing within it the green refraction of the landscape and the turn of the air. Dorian raised himself, walking back to the tree and leaning against it once more. He smiled as Basil finally broke his sight and began with delicate strokes to run his brush over the canvas. In every dab of ink he imagined that he saw the curve of Dorian’s lips, at once knowing the world and breathing a sigh of future fortunes.


End file.
